


Of Shunters and Mainliners

by ZabbieQ



Category: Starlight Express - Phillips/Stilgoe/Webber
Genre: Gen, Prequel to New Starlight Express, Revamp inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 21:18:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14702526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZabbieQ/pseuds/ZabbieQ
Summary: Rusty would really like to be in the world championship railroad race. Unfortunately, he's an overworked shunter with no time to train, and no carriage will partner with him.





	1. The Life of a Shunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to HopperUK, TuEx, and mystifire for their help with for beta-reading :D

"C'mon, Rusty! C'mon, Rusty!" barked Bogey the balding shunting engine from up the grassy hill. Rusty heard him clap his metal palms to hurry the taller locomotive along. "We get these rocks clean, and we're almost halfway done with this side of the race track!"

"Hang on!" called Rusty, practically juggling the high stack of crates in his corroded arms which blocked his view of most of the green countryside around him. The tank engine did his best to navigate his sooty wheels blindly along the rails, trying not to think too hard on the fact that the waist high latticed guardrail on his left was the only thing that kept him from plummeting to the rocky valley below. For the briefest of moments, the steamer wished he had taken two trips, but he knew the shunters would have muttered under their breaths again about a "mainliner" locomotive not being up to their kind of work. After all, Control called on shunters to do anything and everything in the yard (and to act cheery about it).

To be fair, he wasn't strictly designed for shunting, Rusty told himself yet again as he puffed his way up the hill. He had been built to transport trains across the country, not to hitch and switch them on a siding, but a rusted steamer could not very well roll up to Control and demand to pull a streamlined passenger train as if it were a condition in the Magna Carta. So, if Control offered said rusted steamer a job among the shunting engines for a few pounds an hour, said rusted steamer had to decide between performing work his parents had not built him for or starving on an overgrown track.

Despite his limited vision, Rusty could tell he was now about three quarters up the grassy hill. He could hear the diesel shunters up ahead chatting with each other, but only a handful of the twenty seemed to be scrubbing the rock fixtures Control had ordered them to clean. That morning Control had discovered that some vehicles had broken into the fenced off race area and had spray painted several rude train sized messages on the rocks of either side of the large valley the tracks looped around. Although race night was still months away, trains and humans all over the world watched the televised event, and Control had ordered a deep clean of his property.

Rusty adjusted his grip on the wooden crates of cleaning detergents which Bogey had sent him to fetch. He could feel the top one beginning to slip, and he switched from skating to shuffling his wheels in a sideways step. Suddenly he got a fresh whiff of diesel fumes, and he heard a muffled strand of a Frank Sinatra song and the crunching sounds of wheel-steps on ballast, as if some vehicle close at hand were grooving to a Walkman as he worked - and then Rusty remembered which of his coworkers had recently started listening to the Rat Pack.

Rusty hurriedly pressed himself against the latticed guardrail, silently willing the shunter to stay on his side long enough for the steamer to get by, but he could not prevent the collision.

"Whoop!" said the diesel shunter as the wooden crates toppled onto the concrete sleepers beneath the rails, and Rusty saw the tan face of Pilot, the green engine.

"Great," Rusty exhaled, dropping to his tarnished knees to start grabbing them again. However, the motion caused coals to tumble from the tender which protruded from his back, and he was obliged to snatch them up first.

"C'mon, mainliner! Can't you keep up?" laughed one of the shunters up ahead, and a few of the others snickered. Rusty saw Bogey check his wristwatch, tapping his wheels against the track.

"Sorry, mate," said Pilot, shifting the broom in his hand so that he could tuck a few crates under his own arm. The black haired engine did not even remove his headphones.

"S'okay," Rusty lied even though Pilot probably could not hear him.

The green shunter just gave him a thumbs up and carried his share of the crates up the hill, humming something about up where the air is rarefied and gliding starry eyed.

Rusty rolled his eyes. He did not exactly dislike Pilot; the younger machine had always been easygoing and did not tease Rusty about his mainliner heritage, but at the same time the pilot locomotive did not take a lot of things seriously. While Rusty had to pull double shifts just to keep Control from making insinuations about how much of the budget allowed for coal, Pilot seemed to take little luxuries for granted, like being able to clock out on the dot and having the money to enjoy a Friday night at the cinema car's theater. The other shunters found his goofiness endearing, but Rusty would have been lying if he said he had been thrilled to know Pilot was working with the cleaning crew that day.

"Why didn't you take two trips?" snapped Bogey when Rusty finally joined him, and the steamer saw that the man's exposed scalp was turning pink in the sun, matching the ring of ginger fibers and thinning mustache that remained of Bogey's original synthetic hair. The shunter's diesel tank rumbled in a way that told Rusty to bite his tongue, and the tank engine set about helping his supervisor open the crates and pass out the cleaning supplies and the last of the jugs of water to the twenty tiny locomotives on the hill.

 _That can't be helping the ozone_ , Rusty thought with an inward sardonic chuckle as he maneuvered around his oil burning coworkers, greeted once again by the strong smell of their combined fumes. The shunters wore an odd spectrum of liveries, carrying the paint schemes of the company they had worked on before Control bought them; the younger ones displayed the blue of British Rail, but a few of the older ones dotted the group like black, green, or red isles in an azure sea. Ballast, the engine with round glasses and a blonde ponytail poking out from under her blue cap, gave him a friendly smile before she returned to her scrubbing, but most of the others did not even grunt their thanks. Pilot, Rusty noted, had gone back to sweeping up the bottles the vandals had left, but he alternated with his habitual tic of strumming the broom as if it were a guitar.

Rusty grabbed his own scrub brush and knelt beside one rock with three misspelled vulgarities. He was the lone steamer of the group: shorter than mainline diesels but half a head taller than the other shunters. A metal cap rested upon his reddish-brown hair, and his chimney continually puffed out black smoke wherever he went. His iron plates resembled dungarees, which his mother had once painted a cheery red, but nearly two decades of hard work in all weathers had chipped away his original livery, and his iron body had rusted save for a few spots, like the split firebox door on his chest. Many newcomers mistook him for vagabond until he had to explain that, yes, he belonged in Control's famous yard and, no, he was not at all in line for the scrapheap.

After several moments of scrubbing, Rusty wiped his forehead and took a moment to look round at the race track. The shunters had managed to get a lot done on this side of the valley since that morning, but the other side would require its own day's work. Rusty did not mind cleaning: it was definitely a nice change of pace compared to getting bossed around in the marshalling yard by trucks, coaching stock, and mainliners. It was also when he was more or less on equal footing with the shunters, who had little to say about his work performance when he was not using his wheels.

Next to him, Ballast had covered a large red F in now pinkish suds, and she turned to Rusty. "It's just typical that they'd pick this part of the yard to graffiti," she exhaled, rolling her gray eyes. "I'm pulling the camera crew this year, and the zoom on the lenses can pick up a lot."

"You'll be right where the action is, 'Last," said Rusty, half-admiring, half-envious.

"Just one small section of the race track," Ballast said modestly, her cleaner hand fidgeting with her metal torso which resembled a blue boilersuit. "I'll probably only see a few seconds of the racers passing - unless a fight breaks out."

"It probably will if Greaseball is involved," Rusty pointed out.

"Sounds like cushy work," the brown haired Chainlink commented on the woman's other side. "You just handle one area all night. I'm with crowd control."

Ballast raised a blonde eyebrow. "Didn't you apply to be a track marshall?"

Chainlink's green eyes narrowed, and he returned to his scrubbing. "Control is just using mainliners this year."

The other nearby shunters made sounds of sympathy and annoyance, and Rusty made sure to join in. "It's not Tank and his mates, is it?" the steamer asked, wincing as he thought of the thuggish diesels who pulled the binliner trains in a position of authority over the elimination heats. Their lot would probably encourage an illegal brawl or two.

"How should I know?" snapped Chainlink, turning away.

"They'll probably favour the diesel racers," said Ballast with a shake of her head which caused her blonde ponytail to dance. "Diesel mainliners always favour their own kind."

" _Mainliners_  always favour their own kind," one of the nearby shunters cracked, and a few shot knowing looks at Rusty, who lowered his gaze.

Just then the sounds of sweeping, the tinkling of broken bottles, and a baritone voice drew near, moving the attention off the steam engine. " _Come fly with me. Come fly away…_ "

Chainlink turned and gave the singing shunter a friendly smack on the leg. "Oi, Pie Man! Stop listening to that aeroplane propaganda," he pretended to snarl. "Have you got plans for race night with your own kind?"

Pilot finally slipped off his headphones, and once Chainlink had repeated the question, the shunter's green lips formed a satisfied smile. "Requested the night off eight months ago," he replied as he strummed his imaginary guitar. "I plan to put it to good use."

"With a blonde probably," snickered Chainlink.

"I'm not saying it is; I'm not saying it ain't," Pilot said with a mysterious tap on his yellow striped nose.

Ballast rolled her eyes. "Grow up, boys."

Pilot chuckled, giving her a wink, before he suddenly turned to Rusty. "What about you, Steam Man?" he asked companionably. "What's Control got you doing this year?"

Rusty looked down at his soapy rock. "I'll be running errands for the racers, same as last year." He winced, remembering all the tasks he had to do the previous year from fetching food to delivering complex messages he would have gotten in trouble for messing up. The worst had always been the American locomotive, Greaseball, who was the reigning champion of the races for the past seven years. Greaseball had once sent Rusty five stations down the line just to find a pack of chewing gum he preferred only then to lie to Control about the steamer acting insubordinate. "So much fun," Rusty exhaled.

Pilot nodded. "Is your cousin gonna race again?" he then asked. Immediately, Ballast and a few of the other shunters looked up with interest.

Rusty rolled his shoulders, embarrassed at the sudden spotlight (but not too embarrassed). "Dunno," he admitted. "Sandy's been busy with his heritage line."

"He was a good racer," said Pilot, admiration in his voice. "I almost bet money on him to win the final."

"He would have, mind you, if it weren't for Greaseball," Rusty insisted. Two years before, his second cousin, Sand Dome, had competed in the race with his sleeper fiancée and had won his elimination heat, which had sent him to the final. In the last leg of the race, Sand Dome had pulled ahead - until Greaseball had sent the faster tank engine flying into a tunnel.

"But he might not be training this year," said Rusty. "Leah wants a June wedding, so that takes up time - and Sandy's applied to be part of the steam reserve," he remembered.

Pilot raised an eyebrow. "Steam reserve?"

Rusty jerked a nod, feeling his flame flare with pride. "They are a group of steamers that the government keeps in case of a national emergency or war," he explained. "If electric lines are damaged or they can't fuel the diesel mainliners, these steamers can step in and help out."

"Good for Sand Dome," Ballast beamed. "He's definitely fast enough if an emergency happened."

Rusty felt a smile of his own form. The shunters might have regarded mainliners as a foreign species, but at least they did not hate a locomotive just for being steam powered (unlike some diesel engines he could name). "Well, my whole family have been racers," he could not help bragging. "Poppa raced with my gran when he was younger. My dad raced. My mum's engine brothers raced. Sandy and I both did some racing when we were kids. Won a few times too."

Ballast rested her chipped chin against her gloved hand. "Did you race with the coaches on the train you pulled?" she asked kindly.

Rusty shook his head. "I only pulled a train until I was six. Most of the coaches were older than me and didn't want to race with a kid," he explained. "My mate, Buffy, raced with me once, but she got grit in her eyes from the smoke and wouldn't do it again. Mostly I raced with my van cousins."

Ballast nodded, but Rusty noticed several shunters had looked away or returned to their scrubbings at the mention of his old passenger train. He cleared his throat. "But that was a long, long time ago."

"Well, tell Sandy I wish him luck," Pilot said, starting to slip his headphones back on, but he suddenly stopped, jerking his dark head in a greeting way. "Lo, chief."

Rusty turned and saw Bogey skating toward them, his two way radio in hand, and the shunters around him quickly started to make a greater effort to look busy. "That was Shortstop," Bogey told them. "The freight train is coming in, and they need a hand with uncoupling and unloading."

"Not it," Chainlink said under his breath, and a few others stifled their groans.

Bogey did not seem to hear them. The red haired man looked down at the steamer and the blue she-engine. "Rusty, Lassie, you go."

Ballast gave a fixed smile and started to stand, but Rusty's grip tightened a little on his scrub brush. Unloading the freight train was a chore on its own even without the usual hitching and switching involved. "I still got these rocks to finish up," he said, trying to sound reasonable. "Why not get Pilot to do it? He's just sweeping."

Pilot shook his head, setting the black fringe which hung over his green headband bouncing. "No can do, Steam Man," he said. "I'm leaving early just as soon as Smuts shows up to replace me. I'm helping the Wheel Guides on their field trip to learn about commuter trains at the airport terminal." Pilot often volunteered with the little trains from the toddlers to the teenagers, taking them to the cinema car's theatre or organising them into hockey teams or giving guitar lessons.

"Yeah, we've all gotta pull our own weight, mainliner," Chainlink chimed in.

Rusty bit his tongue. It did little good to argue when his coworkers started to gang up against him. He pushed himself to his wheels, taking a moment to rinse his soapy hands with a water jug and wiping them dry on his untarnished firebox door before stepping back onto the rails with Ballast. The blue shunter went down the track first, and Rusty grabbed the holdings of her black belt - he had learned long ago not to suggest that a shunter link themselves to him unless there was an emergency - and as they started down the hill, Rusty heard strands of Pilot's current song.

" _Fly me to the moon. Let me play among the stars…_ "

Ballast gave a soft chuckle. "Remember when he would only listen to They Might Be Giants?" she asked cheerfully. "Wonder how he got into that old stuff."

"Who knows when it comes to Pilot?" Rusty returned, doing his best to tune the goofball out.

* * *

The two shunters reached the freight station just as the train pulled in, all vehicles still in work mode - that phase when rolling stock were cuboid shaped with no hands, face, or feet visible. At the front, Miles the diesel locomotive shifted to racing mode once his human engineer hopped out of his cabin. The locomotive got to his wheeled feet with barely a glance at the shunters, took off his work helmet, and headed toward the fuelling station located in the distance at the traction maintenance depot. At the back Gardner the guard van switched next, but he stayed with the train, pulling out a clipboard to monitor the unloading process.

Shortstop, the muscular blue shunter with the baseball cap covering his black hair, put them on boxcar duty and gave them a (quite unnecessary) reminder not to step on any human truckers who waited by the station for the goods.

Ballast pushed her glasses up her nose and turned to Rusty. "I can shunt while you unload. I can move easier than, well…" Her gray eyes shot to his rusted limbs.

Rusty looked away. "Yeah, I get it."

The two parted. Rusty knelt beside the station platform while Ballast moved to the back and started to push the long line of boxcars, flat cars, and hoppers - longer than usual, Rusty noted with an inward groan. The steamer had to uncoupled the hoppers and send them down the line toward Shortstop to be emptied. The flat cars were the easiest to manage, but the boxcars had to be opened gently, and their goods were to be pulled out and placed on the concrete platform so that the tiny truckers could started moving them into the artics attached to the waiting lorries.

As Rusty opened his sixth boxcar and pulled out what looked like paper products in crates, he found his mind slipping back to the conversation about race night and his sports lineage.

He could remember his own elation as he had watched Sandy and Leah train under Poppa's expert eye. His grandfather might not have stepped onto a race track in decades, but Sandy had improved his natural talent into sheer excellence under the great Ramblin' McCoy's regime. Rusty for his part had done whatever he could to aid Sandy, and he remembered how proud he had felt as he got the honor of being a member of Sandy's crew, not forced to wait on any National engine - and he remembered the thrill of watching Sandy duck and dodge and turn sharp corners that the larger engines struggled with - and how he had screamed himself hoarse as Sandy placed first in his elimination heat, right ahead of the Japanese electric train.

As he unloaded yet another boxcar, Rusty started to think back to his own childhood when he, Sandy, and their boxcar cousins had competed in the youth league. Back then they only raced against other steamer children. He had placed third or second in some events and had actually won a few, and he remembered the pride on his parents' faces as the judges draped a medal around his neck.

If he were honest with himself, he would give anything for the chance to race again - not that he had many opportunities, despite living in the yard where the world championship was held each year. He would be laughed off the rails if he asked Control if he could participate.

Without meaning to, his gaze shifted back toward the rails which led to the race area, and he felt his mechanical heart twist a little.

_If only…_

"Wake up, mainliner!" a man's voice cut into his thoughts.

Rusty blinked and saw Shortstop glaring at him, arms akimbo, and it took the steamer a moment to realize he had yet to uncouple the large hopper in front of him. He quickly disconnected the holdings and pushed the truck down the line toward the impatient blue shunter, feeling his face heat. "Sorry, Dustin," he mumbled.

Finally free of their cargo, one by one the goods vans stood, resuming their humanoid forms, and began to leave. A few boxcars stopped and thanked the shunters, but most wagons were too busy heading for the food booths after their long journey.

"That didn't take  _too_  long," Ballast said companionably once she joined Rusty.

"Hmm," replied Rusty, wiggling his back so that he could hear the water sloshing in his tank. He could do with a refill. He turned his wheels toward the buildings in the distance, where the fuelling station sat next to the food booths; although that area of the traction motor depot had been remodelled to service diesel engines, the old wooden water tower still stood just beyond it.

As he started forward, Ballast rolled beside him, still grinning. "Hey, did you hear that the queen might be sending her Royal Train to compete this year?" she asked excitedly. "She has all those racehorses, you know. I bet her racing engine's gonna be brilliant - she was a mechanic, you know," she added.

Rusty nodded. "Gonna be a lot more security too," he observed, already imagining how frenzied the yard would be in preparation.  _Wouldn't it be something to race against the Royal Train?_  His heart quickened a little.

They at last reached the water tower, and Rusty connected the hose to his tank. As the water flowed into him, suddenly he heard a rumbling above their heads which drowned out the surrounding noises of the yard. Rusty looked up to see an aeroplane begin its descent toward the nearby airfield.

Ballast wrinkled her nose. "Noisy things. We'll be hearing a lot from  _them_  as humans come flying in for race night."

"They're not all bad," Rusty countered, shielding his eyes against the sun so that he could watch the plane descend. He had sometimes been sent down the commuter line on errands to the airport terminal. The larger aircraft gave the train tracks a clear area, but a few of the planes used by tourists and skydivers would sit by the fence that separated the commuter line from the airfield and chat with the passing rolling stock. "One of the tiny ones gave me a fiver for delivering a letter to the mail train," Rusty told Ballast.

Ballast opened her mouth to reply - and promptly froze.

That was when Rusty realised there was a much stronger smell of diesel in the air than what Ballast's exhaust could produce - along with traces of what could only be bin stench. Rusty tensed and slowly looked over his shoulder. Three engines in black liveries and work helmets stood behind him: the resident binliners who took the waste trains to the landfill.

Tank, the tallest and worst of the three, rolled forward, his small eyes baleful. "You a plane lover, steam train?"

Rusty moved a step back, disconnecting from the hose. The streams of water poured onto the track beneath, but he made no move to turn it off. "Er…"

At his side, Ballast backed away, but Lube, the bulky one, grabbed her blue arm. "What about you, four eyes?" he leered. "You like planes?"

Ballast gave her head a furious shake, setting her ponytail on a frenzied dance, but the stronger locomotive hung onto her.

Rusty held up his hands. "Nobody wants any trouble, Tank," he said carefully, but the pipes in his brains hissed as he weighed his options. Fighting back was out, but maybe if he could make a grab for Ballast, he could start down the line toward Control's tower and safety - but would he be able to run fast enough with Ballast's weight while three unhindered diesels chased them? Well, he would soon find out. "Let's just take it easy, mate."

Tank's lip curled - and in a flash he grabbed the steamer's corroded arm. Rusty bit his cheek as pain shot through his pipes, and he managed not to cry out. "Don't have to be any trouble,  _mate_ ," Tank answered, "but us real engines don't take to no trains turning on their kind."

Rusty shook his head. "I ain't turnin' on anybody, Tank."

"That's good. 'Cause anything that don't ride on rails ain't our friends, steamer." The binliner's small eyes narrowed further. "Those pipsqueak cars already take away money from passenger trains and freight trains alike. Planes do too. You want planes to put us diesels out of work?"

Rusty forced a disarming smile. "C'mon, aeroplanes ain't ever gonna replace trains in Britain, Tank."

Tank's grip tightened on his arm, and his thumb dug right into his rust. "Maybe, but any pound that doesn't go to the railway is a pound you can't feed yourself with." With his free hand he rapped upon Rusty's forehead. "Think about it, dimwit. Planes have ruined business for trains in other countries, and if that happened here, you'd be the first sent to the scrapyard, Rusty."

"I get it, I get it," Rusty insisted, but his eyes slid to Ballast. If he could just knock away the diesels, maybe they could run...

Tank suddenly looked at the wooden tower's hose with its water still cascading onto the tracks, and a smirk appeared, revealing his stained teeth. "Now, how can we make sure the steam train remembers that?"

"Hey!" came a familiar deep voice, radiating authority.

The diesels paused, and Tank released Rusty. The steamer turned to see Poppa, his wrinkled grandfather, skating toward them, pumping his ageing pistons.

"Leave them alone," Poppa barked, making a sharp brake that would have caused another old train to topple over. "You lads get back to your own work."

Tank scoffed. "We don't have to listen to you, old man," he retorted, but he did not try to grab Rusty again.

Gook, the youngest, punched one fist into his own palm. "Best watch your step, Pops."

Poppa gave Gook a stern glance. "You dent a display train, and Control will take the pounds out of your own pocket to fix me." He then turned, and with a single gyration of his old legs, he stood next to Rusty and Tank. He firmly grabbed his grandson's elbow, pulling him away from the diesel. He then gestured for Ballast to grab his holdings - the shaking shunter did not protest - and with a tug to turn off the tower's hose, he guided the two engines away from the binliners.

Rusty allowed Poppa to push him back toward the freight station, and he heard Tank called after them nastily, "See you around, Rusty!"

"Later, Rusty!" said the other binliners with wicked laughs, which was (thankfully) followed by the sounds of departing wheels.

Once a safe distance stood between the two shunters and the binliners, Poppa braked and gave Rusty's hair a reassuring pat. He then looked over his shoulder at Ballast, who still clung to his couplings like a cat with its claws caught in curtains. "You okay, Lassie?"

Ballast gave a brief nod, but Rusty saw that her gray eyes still stared wildly around.

Rusty moved closer to his coworker. "Do you need to sit down, 'Last?"

"I'm f-f-fine. Just n-need a cuppa oil..." she stammered, pushing away from the two steamers to stagger toward the diesel fuelling area, where Rusty spotted Shortstop and a few other shunters standing, gaping at the scene. As Rusty's gaze fell upon them, they awkwardly went back to their own business, keeping their heads down.

Rusty could not entirely blame them.

* * *

"You okay, son?" asked Poppa, touching Rusty's shoulder.

"Yeah, Poppa," Rusty said, rolling in place to puff his pistons in an effort to work off the built up steam pressure. He pursed his lips and allowed some of the steam to escape through his whistle, emitting a low sound. " _Whoooo_..."

Poppa looked over his shoulder toward where Tank and the other binliners had disappeared, and his brown eyes narrowed. "Takes a real coward to go after women and rusting machines," he muttered.

"They've gone after Walkers who can't outrun them," Rusty pointed out flatly, referring to the rolling stock who had lost their wheels but could not convince Control to spend the money to repair them. "Ain't much the binliners won't do."

A fresh puff of black smoke erupted from Poppa's green hat. "Starlight forgive me, but it's a struggle to like some trains," he said softly, seeming more to speak to himself. He shook his head, sending his smoke in a zigzag.

"What were you doing out this way, Poppa?" Rusty asked, changing the subject. Poppa lived as a display engine in the small area of the yard which served as the heritage railway. The green locomotive had been a racing celebrity in his youth, and that guaranteed him a modest paycheck as tourists and trainspotters came for miles to visit his track.

Poppa turned, and his wrinkled brown face transformed into a glowing beam as he smiled. "On my lunch break and lookin' for you. I got some news you're gonna like, son." He reached behind his shoulder and rummaged in his coal before he withdrew a blackened envelope. "Cousin Sandy's been accepted into the strategic steam reserve."

Immediately Rusty felt the tension in the air evaporate. "I knew he would!" he beamed, pumping a triumphant fist. "He deserves it!"

"Mmm-hmm," agreed Poppa, passing the letter to Rusty. "That's something no diesel can take away from him."

Rusty scanned the page, feeling his smile widen. About time something good happened to someone in the family. "The extra money will make Leah happy too. They'll be able to build a baby a lot sooner."

Poppa nodded, and Rusty saw a new light appear in his brown eyes. "You know, that means there's an opening over on his heritage line now. Maybe you could apply."

Rusty's elation promptly deflated. "If the directors pick anyone, it's gonna be a better kept steamer or even a diesel," he said flatly, passing the letter back.

"You never know," his grandfather returned.

Rusty shook his head. "I'll have better luck winning the world championship race."

"No reason why you can't do that either," Poppa quipped, folding the letter and stuffing it back into the envelope. "Sandy made it to the final when he raced. You're not too different from him."

"I think I'm pretty different, Poppa," Rusty replied, casting a rueful glance at his rusted joints and limbs.

"But the potential is still there," said Poppa, giving his arm a gentle pat. "You're mighty fast, even with your rust. If we could set up a demonstration and show the heritage line how fast you are, they might take a gamble and spiff you right up."

"That's a big gamble."

"You're still a steamer, son. Have faith." He reached back and stuck the envelope back into his tender. "I'll pray about it."

"Sure, you do that, Poppa," Rusty muttered, trying his best to keep as much sarcasm as he could out of his voice.

Poppa then nodded toward the food booths. "I still got some minutes left for my break. You got time for a sandwich?"

Rusty felt his appetite awaken, and his nose suddenly took notice of the smells of cooking meat on the breeze, but he had to shake his head. "Nah, I still got some chores I gotta finish up."

"Maybe I'll get something for your supper before you start your night shift," Poppa suggested, giving a departing wave. As the elderly engine headed toward the queues of rolling stock waiting for food, Rusty heard his deep voice singing, " _Nobody can do it like a steam train…_ "

Rusty spun away, heading toward the shed where cleaning supplies were kept, intending to knock off his daily task of checking the landscape for rubbish from his to do list. However, he could not completely push Poppa's words from his mind, although he knew they were foolish. He had sometimes daydreamed of entering the championship - who didn't? - but his racing days had died a long time ago. Unless Control lost his marbles and ordered full refurbishments for all his neglected vehicles, Rusty doubted he would be experiencing a grand comeback anytime soon.

 _No harm in dreaming_ , he thought wistfully. A dream was all it could ever be anyway.

Yet even as his mind kept listing all the reasons why he could never join a real race, a tiny part of him remembered again the competitions of his youth: the wind against his synthetic skin, the braggadocios banter Sandy and he had engaged in, and that delicious warmth, born of steam, coursing through his pipes as he charged ahead of the other young steamers.

The supply shed came into view, and he could see a few work trucks milling about, but his imagination soon took over, and all he could see was himself on Control's race track. He would run neck and neck against the record holders like the French TGV, the Japanese bullet train, and even that rotten diesel, Greaseball. Then at the last second, Rusty would pull ahead, leaving them all behind, and zoom across the finish line to cheers from an adoring crowd. The shunters would stare in awe and admiration. The binliners would be humbled. Control would offer to refurbish him and give him his own passenger train. Or maybe Sandy's heritage railway would take notice of him, and he could move to a new yard where steam trains were welcomed and where binliners couldn't bother him. Or maybe the strategic steam reserve would recruit him.

His flame grew a little at the thought.

 _If Sandy can do it, why can't I?_  Sandy might have had more experience, but they were the same model of tank engine with the same number of wheels. Rusty knew he was fast, and if he could just prove himself, surely he could apply for refurbishment, right?

 _Couldn't hurt just to ask somebody if they want to race_ , he told himself.  _If I can get a partner, then I could have a chance._

* * *

"Very funny," sniffed Buffy the buffet car, returning to her cutting board with a shake of her brunette head. "You really had me going there, sugar."

"I'm not joking, Buff," Rusty insisted, maneuvering around the counter to stand in front of his friend. He had waited three hours for his first shift to end to talk with her, and he was not about to back down. "Don't you want to be the partner of the next steam champion?"

The yellow carriage looked up again from the turkey sandwich she was slicing diagonally, and she pointed the tip of her knife at him. "If you're looking to flirt with death, steam boy, you can try jumping off a cliff. Would be a lot faster and involve less heartache for Poppa."

"I'm not gonna die, Buff," he said, rolling his eyes. "We just go from the start line to the finish line. No big deal. Even Poppa could do that."

Buffy pursed her lips. She was the only remaining friend he had from the old days. Although they had been built six months apart, Buffy had come from a factory and had been better maintained than the home built steamer, both in their old yard and now by Control. While decidedly more feminine than when she had gone through her tomboy phase, Buffy's appearance reflected a practicality that had never lent itself to the frills and polish of first class carriages: she resembled a car hop waitress from the 1950s with a tiny yellow hat with rivets upon her brown hair, yellow cabins lined with blue on her shoulders, a glass display case on her chest, and yellow short trousers above legs painted white. In their youth, Buffy had ridden behind him on their passenger train and had seen firsthand how fast he could go, but as her brown eyes traveled his rusted dungarees, she seemed to see only a slow shunter that time had forgotten.

"So, you think it'll be a piece of cake then?" she frowned. "Then do you remember Greaseball?"

"Vividly," he said through his teeth.

"That handsome hunk don't play around, you know," Buffy reminded him, tapping her knife against the cutting board. "Remember Dinah, the coach he brought last year? She might have looked cute and dainty, but she was able to give Espresso's brother what for when he tried to trip her in the final."

"I'm pretty good at ducking when I need to."

She shook her head, and her brown eyes softened a little. "Rusty, this isn't like when we were kids and you wore that blue costume because you wanted to be the TARDIS when you grew up," she said, and a plea slipped into her voice. "If you do this and lose, they'll laugh at you for the rest of your life."

Rusty planted both palms on the table. "But if I win, Buff, then I can finally make something of myself," he said. "I can leave this yard forever."

Buffy looked away and reached for a slice of bread.

He tried a different route. "We can at least try one training session, couldn't we? If I can't do it, then I'll… then you don't have to race with me after all."

Her lips thinned, and she continued to work on the sandwich in silence for what felt like several moments. "I'll think about it," she finally answered as she folded a slice of turkey in half.

"That's all I ask for, Buff."

Buffy rolled her yellow shoulders. "Get going now. I still have work to do." She topped the sandwich with the other piece of bread.

Rusty could not help the smirk that appeared on his face. "And you're worried about  _me_ getting hurt. What about your customers?" he cracked.

Buffy gave him a small grin in return. "Get going, or I'll give you the leftover egg salad for your dinner."

"I'm leaving! I'm leaving!" laughed Rusty, hurrying out of the food booth and into the bright sunshine.

Rusty gave his pistons a cheerful pump, chugging down the rails. " _Nobody can do it like a steam train_ ," he hummed. Buffy might have been hesitant, but once she got a chance to see him steaming at top speed, she would see things his ways.

He quickly tried to calculate how much time a week he could spare for training. He usually pulled double shifts with five hours to spare for sleeping plus meal breaks. Of course, he had not had a day off for either shift for almost a fortnight, but if he trained in that free hour between his shifts, that gave him a grand total of...

His face fell, and his pistons slowed. Even if he did get Buffy on board, he did not have near enough time to train before the race. He would look like a fool if he tried to go up against National champions who had whole months to prepare.

_Am I finished before I even start?_

He passed the edge of the coach yard. He could see carriages sunbathing, chatting, or even napping in work mode, and suddenly a movement caught his eye. He turned his head to see that a short male coach stood beside the nearest shed, shuffling through what looked like letters. A pair of square glasses sat upon his thin brown nose, and his metal body had been designed to resemble a postman's uniform, complete with a cap upon his dark hair which read MAIL and a stripe of paint which resembled a necktie. Rusty recognised him at once as Travis, that unpleasant car from the Travelling Post Office.

Rusty picked up his pace and covered his chimney to smother the warm smoke in attempt to remain inconspicuous.  _Don't make eye contact. Don't make eye contact -_

"You, steam train!" barked a nasal voice.

Rusty braked with reluctance. "Yeah?"

Travis rolled toward him. "I require a shunter to the airport terminus. Care to assist me?" he asked in a tone that said this was not a request.

"Well, I'm not on the clock right now - " Rusty started to say, but Travis cut him off.

"Every time I need a shunter, they're always vanishing. I have a schedule to keep too, you know," the male coach said impatiently.

"I'm not on the clock right now," Rusty tried again, "but you can just leave the post here, and we can deliver it for you. Then you can be on your way."  _Far, far away_.

Travis adjusted his square glasses, and his brown eyes grew sterner. "Tell me, shunter, are you a registered piece of rolling stock for the Rail Express Systems Travelling Post Office?"

Rusty exhaled. "No, I'm not."

"Then you're scarcely qualified, m'lad." Travis pointed toward the airport's commuter line. "Right, let's be off. Or I shall file a complaint with the management."

Rusty unwillingly turned and allowed the postal car to hitch behind him.

* * *

"Of course I would get the one shunter with a chimney," Travis coughed. "Not that diesel fumes wouldn't hurt the brain cells if machines had them. Have you tried burning wood?"

Rusty cast a glance toward the nearby field and paved areas. Any tree that had not been cleared to make room for rail tracks, road, or buildings was too small and scarce for proper fuelling. "No, it never occurred to me. Thank you for the suggestion."

He heard Travis make a scoff. "Don't get smart, lad. I'm ready, willing, and able to pass my comments onto your superior."

Rusty gritted his teeth.  _Just grin and bear it, Rusty_. He picked up the pace, and the smoke erupted from his chimney full force, causing Travis to sputter again.

"Watch it now!" the TPO car snapped.

The airfield steadily grew closer, and Rusty spotted a few of the tiny aeroplanes rolling among the hangars. They resembled trains in racing mode and had wheels on their feet, but they had wings protruding from their backs. A few stopped to give curious looks at the rusted steamer chugging past and whispered to each other.

As he neared the railway station, Rusty spotted the troop of Wheel Guides playing at the end of the line while the commuter train, the red Poppy sisters, supervised. While rolling stock had the physical appearance of adults their whole lives, one could always spot a train child from their puerile mannerisms and the innocent look in their youthful eyes - of course, in the case of the Wheel Guides, it helped that the girls sported neck scarves and sashes with badges over their normal railway attire.

Rusty braked, and the mail car uncoupled. "Don't go anywhere," Travis warned before he spun and started for the hangars where the aeroplanes lived.

Rusty settled against the fence which separated the tracks from the planes' domain, drumming his callused fingers.  _I'm not even getting paid for any of this_.

However, before he could start to brood over his stolen free time, a cheerful voice called out, "Rusty!"

He turned to see Carmen the chair car, one of the leaders for Wheel Guides, rolling toward him with what looked like a bin bag. She had purple paint and cropped lavender hair which was mostly hidden by her troop leader hat. "Nice to see you, Rusty," she greeted, grinning.

He returned the smile. "What's new?"

She gestured toward the little trains. "Our tour of the airfield ran a little late, and we only just finished our picnic," she said. "I have to get the girls back to the yard, and the Poppy sisters offered to pull us home. Could you toss this for me?" She held up the bin bag.

"Sure," Rusty replied before he frowned. "Where's Pilot?" The shunter might have been a goofball, but he was pretty responsible when children were involved.

"One of the planes asked for his help," Carmen explained, giving a small shake of her lavender head. "I guess he must have lost track of the time, bless him." She pointed toward a nearby building. "I think I saw a skip bin over by that hangar."

Rusty nodded, and as the purple coach started back toward her energetic charges, he swung himself over the fence and placed an experimental step upon the pavement.  _So weird_ , he thought, wondering how aeroplane wheels managed without rails.

However, he got the hang of it quickly, and he soon reached the hangar. He rolled toward the back, now stepping on grass and gravel. As he reached the last window, he suddenly heard the familiar baritone of Sinatra. Rusty rolled his eyes. Well, there was  _one_  of life's mysteries solved.

He rounded the corner to see Pilot standing with a pretty female plane roughly his height. The two seemed to be having an animated conversation as Sinatra sang about fingers in his hair and sly come hither stares. The music streamed happily from a radio in the aeroplane's blue hand, which clearly belonged to her. Rusty noticed that the she-plane had two wings that protruded from a piece of metal that resembled a backpack -  _a monoplane_ , he told himself - and she had been painted white with blue stripes, and blue and white streaks decorated her tan face. A piece of white metal wrapped around her head in what looked an aviator's cap, and a pair of goggles sat atop it.

Rusty had no desire to draw attention to himself, and he moved toward the skip bin as quietly as his rusted limbs allowed, hoping they would not detect the smell of his coal smoke. He opened the lid of the bin and gently placed the bag inside - and suddenly Pilot ceased his habitual strumming and leaned forward, planting his green lips against the aeroplane's blue ones.

The skip bin lid fell from Rusty's hand and clattered.

The two machines instantly started and whirled around. The plane's eyes widened, and she clutched the shunter's green arm. Pilot opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The colour seemed to drain from his tan face.

Rusty took a step back. "Was just leaving," he managed to say before he spun on his wheels and sped off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Binliners_ : While there's little indication of what the diesel gang does for day jobs, with names like Tank, Lube, and Gook, they probably aren't pulling the Royal Train. As I was looking up information on British diesel engines, I came across binliner trains, and I knew I wanted to use it. (No, I'm not saying they are _the_ binliner trains. I kinda imagine Control in a real-train AU "collecting" rolling stock, hence why the coaches wear different colors instead of a single livery.)


	2. The Glory of a Mainliner

The next morning Rusty left his leaky shed early to head to Control's tower, planning to request a spot in the race. Although the still rising sun could not chase away the chill which hung in the air and made him glad for his firebox, and although butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he approached the yard owner's residence, he had a grin on his hastily washed face - at least until he passed the coach yard and saw Buffy emerging from her shed, rolling toward him with an awkwardly cheerful smile and a plate of what looked like a hot breakfast.

"Uh-oh," he said, braking harder than he meant to and causing his toe stop to squeak on the rail.

Buffy frowned as she stopped beside him, stepping onto the grass. "I made your favourite, and that's your response?"

Rusty looked down at the plate, which had the full monty of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, and buttered muffins, just to name a few. It smelled wonderful and caused his mechanical stomach to rumble in anticipation - and it also made him suspicious. "The last time you made me breakfast was when you broke all the disco records I loaned you," he reminded her, giving the yellow and white carriage a sweeping glance. "What did you do?"

"Russell McCoy, is that the way to talk to your friends?" she sniffed, putting her free hand on her riveted hip - but she did not exactly meet his eye as she said it. When Rusty made no response, she finally cleared her throat and said, "Control gave me a job for race night."

There it was. "Oh?"

"Refreshment committee for the racers," she explained, extending the breakfast plate for him to grab. "Guess I won't be able to race even if you did get the time off."

Rusty's face fell. "Did you tell him about being my partner?"

Buffy still did not meet his eye. "You know how Control is." She extended the plate again, but he did not take it.

"But if you do get the time off, you won't race with anybody else, will ya?" he pressed.

Buffy gave him a sad smile. "Race night is too far off for me to make that kinda promise, sweetie." She then quickly turned, plate still in hand, and returned to the coach yard before Rusty could utter a response.

"Back to track one," Rusty muttered, spinning toward the freight marshalling yard. Without a partner, he did not dare approach Control about the race. His employer would just tell him "Very funny" and send him back to work.

 _Maybe Poppa will know who I can ask_ , Rusty thought.

His grandfather had been over the moon the previous night when Rusty had told him his plans. "I'll teach you everything I know, my boy," Poppa had promised. "This is an answer to prayer!"

Rusty privately doubted that an invisible train rolling around the stars cared one way or another about racing, but he had given his grandfather a kind grin and soaked in all the advise the elderly engine started to share, from proper stretching to what kinds of fuel helped with the first month of training.

' _Course, I'm still gonna have less time to train than Sandy had_ , he thought ruefully, but he tried to focus on the positive. Poppa had agreed to train him, and that was more than he had yesterday.  _There has to be ONE carriage interested in the race. ...Right?_

Rusty passed beneath the gantry straddling the entrance of the marshalling yard, and he then heard someone call his name. He looked up to see Bogey maneuvering around some tank cars in work mode, and the blue shunter skated toward him.

The steamer nodded as Bogey neared. "Hey, boss."

His supervisor slowed, and his red eyebrows furrowed. Bogey was taller than most shunters and stocky. Although he had risen through the ranks to be a supervisor over the shunters, his receding red hairline and thinning mustache spoke volumes of his worth to Control. "I heard about yesterday," Bogey said, sounding concerned. Bogey was often more calm and conscientious in the brief hours before the onslaught of passengers showed up for their morning commute, dividing his attention from his other duties. "Ballast said the binliners gave you trouble."

Rusty jerked a nod, and he felt the steam pressure rise inside him. "Yeah, 'Last and I were just minding our own business, and they wanted to start a row."

Bogey's lips thinned, making it look like his red mustache had replaced his mouth. "Control has promised to talk to them."

Rusty snorted. "Lotta good that'll do," he drawled. "Shunters would get sacked if we went around tormenting other vehicles, but the binliners get a slap on the wrist."

Bogey's brown eyes darkened, but when he spoke, he obviously tried to keep his voice even: "The binliners make money for Control. Shunters are non-revenue. Simple as that."

Rusty clenched his jaw. Simple indeed. "One of these days there's gonna be a strong somebody who will get sick of them and teach them a lesson."

"It won't be a shunter." Bogey shook his balding head. "If a mainliner gets damaged, Control fixes him up so that he can keep making money. A shunter gets damaged, and Control makes the rest of us shoulder the workload and lets the poor fool rot away."

Rusty winced.

"That's been the life of a shunter the world over for years, Rusty," Bogey said. "My mam's grandfather had burned coal just like the mainline steamers, but his company still treated him like dirt."

"Doesn't mean it should be like that," said Rusty.

Bogey exhaled, sending a whiff of diesel fumes into Rusty's face. "We all have to live with the lot we're given. No shunter's gonna change that - nor a mainliner turned shunter. Best to smile and say 'three bags full, sir' if you want to survive." Bogey cleared his throat, and it was clear the conversation was over. "Right, once you punch in, head over to the cleaning machines and restock the carpet shampoo," he instructed. "After everyone is done with their lunch breaks, we'll try to tackle cleaning the rest of the race track."

Bogey left then, and Rusty stepped onto the track that led to the station where the punch cards were stored. Since he wasn't speaking to Control now, there was little to do but hang out and wait for his shift to start.

However, he had rolled over three meters worth of track when he braked, clenching his iron fists.  _Is this what I want it to be like for the rest of my life?_

Rusty felt a slow burn course through him. "Fat chance," he said through his teeth. Even if he could only convince Control to give him one day off a month to train, he would take advantage of every second, and if he could find someone to replace Buffy, then he had a real chance.

 _If I can prove I'm fast enough, I can find some other railway who will take me. Then I can leave forever_.

* * *

"You can't be serious," said the high pitched voice that emitted from the speaker attached to the control tower.

Rusty looked at the dark windows in lieu of meeting his employer's eyes. "But, Control - "

"This is a private race, Rusty," Control said briskly. "My gramps was the one to approve all entries when he held the first one in Nineteen-Forty-Seven, and forty-five years later I'm the one to do it. Nobody races unless I say so." The speaker emitted a sound like flipping paper, as if Control was shuffling through documents. "I've already turned down Sleipnir the Swedish champion and Weltschaft the German train. Although," he added, his tone becoming considerably lighter, "I'm thinking of sending an invitation to that Ruhrgold, the InterContinental Express. The one on the telly last Friday. Did you see that?" asked Control, excitement slipping into his high voice.

Rusty thought Ruhrgold was called an InterCity-Express, but he decided against mentioning it. Instead he said, "But haven't I proven I'm strong? Even with all this rust, I get all my work done everyday."

Control paused. "That is true." He sounded thoughtful.

Rusty took courage and straightened his shoulders. "And Poppa thinks I can do it - you saw how good he was at training Sandy."

"Sandy  _was_  good," agreed Control, and he fell silent for what felt like several torturous minutes. Just as Rusty started to cough into his hand, Control said, "Fine, you can do it."

Rusty beamed, pumping his pistons. "You mean it?"

"Yep," replied Control. " _If_  you can get all your work done as usual. No slacking."

Rusty's face fell. Of course there would be a catch. "Would it be okay if I took a little time off? To train, you know?" he pleaded.

Control snorted, which sounded odd through the speaker. "We still have a business to run, and we're gonna have a lot of people and trains coming in to watch the championship. As long as the work gets done, you can race. Speaking of which," Control added, and Rusty could imagine his unseen employer frowning, "shouldn't you start your chores?"

* * *

_Find a partner. Just find a partner_ , Rusty told himself as he chugged toward the cleaning machines with the armful of boxes containing carpet shampoo which he had retrieved from the supply shed.  _Worry about a schedule later_.

His best plan was to try the heritage line first. The vehicles there had been alive during the golden age of steam, and most of them had steamers in their family trees. Out of all rolling stock, they might be more sympathetic to his goal. Most of the newer coaching stock normally turned their noses up at him while the ones who favoured him tended to treat him like an old man who they humoured.  _Let's call that Plan B - if I'm desperate_.

He rounded the traction maintenance depot and neared the cleaning machines - the structures that resembled a car wash for rolling stock - and he noticed eight or nine carriages kneeling on a parallel track. He soon saw that they had coloured chalk and drew upon the concrete sleepers, so he deduced they were mostly children - except for the green shunter who stopped dead when he caught sight of the tank engine.

Rusty cleared his throat and kept rolling, but Pilot called to him, "Rusty, can you just wait for a spell?"

The steamer braked, trying to hide his grimace, and Pilot turned to one of the older carriages who had pink hair and smooth, tawny brown skin. "Pearly, can you keep an eye on the little ones for me real quick?"

The teenage looking carriage nodded. "Sure, Mr. Pilot."

Pilot got to his wheels and started toward Rusty, who tucked the shampoo boxes under one arm. "I  _really_  need to restock, Pilot, so - "

"I'll go with you," said Pilot quickly, and Rusty noticed then that his normally bright eyes now had dark rings under them.

Rusty headed to the soap cupboard of the cleaning station, shadowed by the green shunter. He glanced around for the attendant, that Australian shower car named April, but she did not seem to be about. Pity. Rusty quickly unlocked the door, and Pilot leaned against one of the pillars that shot water at bathing rolling stock.

"You left pretty quick yesterday," the younger shunter said, shuffling his wheels. "I took that mail car back to the yard for ya."

Rusty nodded, trying not to grimace. "Thanks."

"I tried talking to you last night," Pilot added, "but you weren't in the marshalling yard."

Rusty kept his eyes on the boxes, pretending to be absorbed in arranging them in neat stacks. "Control sent me down the line on an errand. Didn't get back until almost midnight."

Rusty could hear Pilot's diesel tank rumble, making a sound that was more likely to come from Bogey at the announcement of a delayed train than from the perpetually cheerful goofball. "Look, about what you saw - "

Rusty hurriedly shoved the last box into the shed and began to close the door. "Did I see something?"

He heard Pilot step toward him, and he finally looked up in time for Pilot to grab his arm. The younger man's hazel eyes brimmed with stress. "How much will it cost for you to stay quiet?" he asked, his voice tight.

Rusty shrugged him off, wincing as he rubbed the rusted patch Pilot had aggravated. "Nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

Rusty met his frantic eyes. "What do you take me for?"

The shunter hesitated. "If any of the mainliners find out, I'm dead," he whispered.

Rusty nodded grimly. He did not envy Pilot's position. "Then what were you doing out of doors with her?"

Pilot looked down at his wheels. "Her roommate was using their hangar." He swallowed. "I didn't mean to kiss her in broad daylight, but I can't help myself around her - have you ever been in love?" he asked suddenly, looking up.

Rusty coughed into his sooty hand. "Er, no."

"Well, if you had been, you'd understand," Pilot said quietly.

Rusty bit his cheek, trying not to feel too insulted. "What's her name?" he asked.

A small smile suddenly appeared on Pilot's green mouth. "Amelia."

"Fitting," said Rusty.

The rumbling diesel tank quieted, and Pilot's hands cheerfully strummed an air guitar in his signature tic. "You'd like her. She's a right athlete," he bragged, affection and pride warming his voice. "She performed in the air tattoo last year with the aerobatic flyers. Maybe you saw her."

"Doubt it," said Rusty a little flatly. "I was working that day."

Pilot did not seem to hear him. "She's got so much spirit. I've dated some cars that want to be princesses and get waited on hand and wheel, but Amelia knows what she wants and goes after it. She'd fly halfway around the world for a cuppa if the thought entered her head." His hazel eyes then grew serious. "I know what machines think about couples like us, but I can't help how I feel."

Rusty rolled his shoulders. This was far from his area of expertise. "If you think it'll work out, then go for it," he said and, thinking he ought to give more than just a stale cliche from a poorly written romance novel, added, "I want to be a racer, and I already had one friend tell me I shouldn't do it, but I'm gonna try anyway."

Pilot's dark eyebrows shot up. "You're gonna race?"

Rusty nodded. "Control approved my entry this morning."

The shunter beamed. "Brilliant! He must have a lot of faith in you."

"I think 'faith' is too strong a word," Rusty said sardonically.

Pilot shook his head, still grinning. "Sand Dome was a great racer. If you're even half as good, you'll do great."

Rusty smiled. "Thanks." Maybe Pilot was not so bad.

Suddenly, there came a childish shriek, causing Rusty to jump. Pilot rushed toward the corner of the supply cupboard, but his grin soon returned as he pulled back. "They're just playing," he told Rusty. "They started racing together. Pearly's even pretending to be an engine for baby Opal and moving her arms like a steam train." He chuckled. "That one is growing up so fast. Her birthday is in two weeks, you know."

Rusty had rarely been around the children of the yard since most mothers did not want their precious babes getting rust stains, so he did not share Pilot's enthusiasm over a game of make believe. However, this did remind him of his present problem, and he softly exhaled steam through his whistle. "Even a kid is better at getting a partner than me."

Pilot turned his head. "What do you mean?"

Rusty heaved his shoulders. "Not much good getting into the race without somebody to race with."

Pilot's dark brow furrowed in thought. "Newcastle the coal train ought to be bringing in a shipment next month," he mused, tapping his tan chin. "He might introduce you to one of his trucks if you ask. Or..." He suddenly snapped his fingers. "Hey, doesn't Greaseball always bring that caboose with him?"

Rusty recalled the red truck with a brown mustache, cheerful smile, and a tendency to speak in radio slang. "C.B.?"

Pilot nodded. "Yeah, he's an all right chap. He's raced with other engines before when their partners get sick, remember? If he comes back this year, you could always ask him if you ain't found a partner by then."

Rusty appreciated another train offering help instead of criticism, but he had to shake his head. "I'd rather race with a coach, I think," he told Pilot. "The audience always snickers at the racers who bring in freight trucks, like they couldn't do any better. Mind you, I got some cousins who are wagons, but if I'm gonna do this, I wanna do it right."

Pilot gave him a thumbs up. "You'll probably find somebody, mate. After all, who  _wouldn't_  wanna be a part of race night?" Pilot then turned back toward the children around the corner. "I should probably get back. They can get right wild if there isn't an adult nearby," he chuckled.

"And I got my chores to do," replied Rusty, glancing at the cleaning station. It looked like it could use a sweep, and he might as well score some approval for getting it done without being ordered first.

"Yeah," Pilot said, and he suddenly gave Rusty a sheepish grin. "You know, I was starting to think you didn't like me, but you're all right, Steam Man." He then turned and hurried off to join his young charges.

* * *

"So much for steam loyalty," grumbled Rusty with an annoyed pump of his arms, heading away from the heritage line.  _There's a tea break I won't get back_.

He glanced toward Poppa's spot beside the heritage station, and he was glad to see that his grandfather rested in work mode, too busy allowing visiting human children to climb into his cab and ring his bell. Rusty did not feel like talking to him right then, and he already knew what Poppa would say: "Have faith, son."

A lotta good faith would do for his problem. Not one antique car had agreed to help him. The first class carriages had claimed his soot would spoil their lace and frills. That second class sleeper and her third class cousin had both told him that Greaseball would beat him to a pulp before he left the starting gate. Diana the funeral car had said her uncle had been a steamer, and she had hated it when he pulled the family on outings because his smoke made her eyes red. The refurbished pigeon van had said her birds trusted no one else to feed them. The old wooden coaches had been afraid of damage. He had even tried to ask the male carriages, such as Obed the sleeper and Bakewell the diner, but they had shaken their heads and told him to forget racing.

At long last he had decided to ask Ashley the smoking car. He had held off approaching her since her health could turn poor on race night if her mechanical lungs decided they could not handle any more tar, but necessity had brought him to her tobacco enriched flat inside the old roundhouse.

She had received him at first with a friendly smile and had offered him a cuppa and a smoke, the latter of which he had politely refused. Though she was nearly four decades older than him, Ashley had been one of the first smoking cars that had allowed women passengers. The heritage railway put considerable effort into preserving her as a piece of history, so she looked and sounded like a human woman in her late twenties. If she could have kicked her smoking habit, only the Starlight knew how spritely she could become.

After they had chatted a few minutes, Rusty had finally made his request, and her cheery smile had been replaced with a look of skepticism. "You can't be serious."

"As I've told twenty other cars today, I actually am," Rusty had replied flatly. "C'mon, Ash, maybe if the railroads give steamers a chance, they'll give smokers a chance. If we win, I bet you wouldn't be the last one in the land anymore."

"Tempting, but I have to say no," Ashley had replied, and she had pulled out a letter from her desk. "Actually, I have plans. Remember Bobo the TGV? He wrote and asked if I wanted to sit with his crew." A smile had spread over her preserved face. "He'll be racing with his sister, Roulette, but he wants to spend his free time with me. I can't race with his competition now, can I?"

Rusty had bitten back the comment he would have liked to make about the blue electric peacock who had sent him on more frivolous errands than he cared to remember. "What is he? Fifteen?"

"Eleven," the wooden coach had answered, casting an affectionate glance at the envelope. Rusty had started to excuse himself then, seeing that he might as well leave, but then Ashley's brown eyes had focused on him. "Rusty, don't try to race. You've spent too long as a shunter now. You won't be able to do it."

"But I can train. No one can move the way I move," he had insisted. "You saw how Sandy turned corners in the races. I can do the same!"

"A lot of champion racers get hurt in these races," she had countered. "If you got so damaged that you couldn't work anymore, do you think Control will repair you?"

Rusty had looked away.

"That's what I thought," Ashley had said.

He had exited her shed then, not even finishing his tea.

Now Rusty let out a puff of smoke. "Looks like I go to Plan B," he said under his breath, following the rails that led to the race arena which still needed cleaning. As soon as he got off his first shift, he would head to the coach yard and try to find a partner before supper.

At the thought of food, his stomach rumbled, and he remembered he had skipped breakfast to talk with Control. Now he wished he had been able to taste the bacon and black pudding Buffy had cooked for him.

He glanced toward the nearby clock that perched on the roof of the passenger station, and he saw he still had five minutes left of his break. Rusty checked the compartment on his leg which he used as a pocket and pulled out a few crumpled monetary cards. Since human money was too small for machines to use, trains traded cards that equaled specific amounts of pounds. Rusty counted his cards, and his flame flared happily when he saw he had just enough money on him for a bag of crisps from the food booths.

The tank engine started on his way in the direction of the traction maintenance depot when a loud voice called out: "Oi, steam train!"

Rusty flinched and looked over his shoulder as Lube, the bulky binliner, rolled toward him, one arm linked with a pretty carriage with brown hair and a red jumper. Rusty recognised her as one of the Poppy sisters from the pair of shoulder pieces bearing the commuter rail colours. Behind Lube a stone faced male wagon with blue paint and greasy blond hair trailed along, one hand linked to the black clad engine's belt loop.

As much as Rusty wanted to bolt away, his common sense kept him rooted to the track as Lube braked in front of him, causing the brunette carriage to giggle. Rusty noticed that Lube now reeked of cologne, no doubt to drown out the stench of rotting rubbish that usually clung to him.

"Just the man I need for an important job," smirked Lube as he swung his arm around the coaches shoulders. "See, my mate, Benny the bin truck, has to collect the rubbish from the skips at the aerodrome because the little bin lorries are too scared to bring the rubbish to us in the yard. But I can't pull him over to the birdhouses because I promised Poppy Six here a lovely evening. So, I need you to do it for me."

Rusty forced a smile and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the race arena. "I really have to go clean some tracks that Control wants us to do today - "

Lube's eyes narrowed. "And that concerns me, how?"

Poppy VI giggled as if Lube had said a jolly good joke and gave her engine a playful swat. "Oh, Lubey, leave him alone." She then tapped his nose. "I know! You can get Pilot to do it. He's always popping over to the airport anyway."

Lube raised an eyebrow. "What business does he have with the airport?"

"Er, no, I can do it," said Rusty quickly. "No worries." He gestured for Benny to hitch onto him, and the smelly truck left his engine without a backwards glance. "Enjoy your evening," Rusty said, pulling Benny away.

Lube smiled at Poppy VI. "Will do," he murmured, Pilot seemingly now forgotten, and the red coach giggled again.

* * *

_I really should have punched back in before doing this_ , Rusty groaned as he headed toward the airport for free for the second time in two days. Rusty could not move too fast without causing the blue bin wagon to duck to avoid his smoke. Although they headed into a pleasant zephyr, Rusty was still obliged to breathe through his mouth to avoid a whiff of Benny's odour.

To think that yesterday he would have cheerfully gone the rest of his life without seeing Pilot's simpering face, and here he was now hauling a bin wagon on an empty stomach to keep that dimwit out of trouble.

Mercifully, he reached the hangars at last, and Benny directed him toward the first one. Rusty obeyed, and the blue wagon briskly opened the lid of the skip. A fresh stench greeted them both, and Rusty's hunger pangs promptly turned to nausea.

"I think I'll move upwind," the steamer gagged, stepping away.

"You do that," answered Benny without looking up.

Rusty rolled beneath the shade of a hangar a sizable distance away and sighed.  _You owe me, Pilot_.

As a fresh breeze picked up, sending his smoke over his back, he scanned the area and saw that one of the bigger planes rested in work mode beside the airport building, no doubt prepared to board passengers. A few little planes of different colours seemed to be congregating in their bipedal forms on the green patch beside the runway - and Rusty tensed as he saw a tiny white monoplane rolling toward him. Although aeroplanes looked the same to Rusty, he was pretty sure he recognised this particular sun kissed face with white and blue stripes.

He took a step back as Amelia braked beside him, but the pretty plane gave him a sweet smile. He relaxed a little and returned the grin - right before her hand shot out and caught his wrist.

"Hey - !" Rusty started to protest, but Amelia's fingers dug right into his rusted metal as she yanked him toward her.

"Listen carefully, you Peeping Tom," the plane hissed through her bared teeth. "I know all about your standing in the railway yard. If you tell anyone about yesterday, I'll deny everything, and you will be  _buried_  by your own kind. Do I make myself clear?"

Rusty tried to pull his arm back, but the little machine was stronger than she looked. "I wasn't planning on it!" he insisted. "What you two do is your own business."

Amelia's glower deepened for a moment, and then she released him. "Then I apologise, Mr. Rusty," she said, taking a step back, but her blue eyes remained suspicious. "Though my point stands if you try to do something stupid." She folded her riveted white arms.

He rubbed his wrist. For a lightweight machine, she could probably do a lot of damage. "Pilot's right about you having spirit," he said wryly.

Her painted face morphed into an earnest look. "You've talked with him then?" At Rusty's nod, she laid a hand against her chest, relieved. "When he left yesterday, he was so worried. He hasn't been back and - well, then I  _am_  sorry," she said, giving him a remorseful look. "I guess you could say a plane is protective of her Pilot."

Rusty looked over his shoulder. He could hear Benny clanking behind another hangar now. He could see a few aircraft rolling in the distance, but none of them gave the steamer and the monoplane a second glance. He turned back to Amelia. "If you're afraid, why even risk it?" he asked softly.

Her blue formed a small sad smile. "Have you ever been in love?"

Rusty rolled his shoulders. "Can't say that I have," he replied, hoping he wouldn't be asked that question a third time that day. He rubbed his neck. "If you don't mind my asking, out of all trains - er, well, why Pilot?"

Her smile widened, and she looked as if she had never been so eager to answer a question. "He has the sweetest heart I've ever seen. Plane men always want to outdo each other - plane women too, mind you," she chuckled wryly. "We're all built to fly solo at some point. But Pilot likes being in a team. Guess it's a train thing," she then reflected, looking up at the blue sky. "Engines are useless without wagons to pull. Wagons are useless without engines to pull them. You have to work together, and I like that about Pilot. Like how he talks about the other shunters and how he plays with the little ones. He's gonna be a great dad someday."

 _A dad to WHAT though?_  Rusty wanted to say, but he restrained himself.

Amelia's gaze returned from the sky, and her smile transformed into a look of urgency. "Can I ask something of you, Mr. Rusty?"

"What?"

"Pilot speaks favourably of you," she began, fidgeting with the blue metal that covered her right elbow. "And you see him when I don't get to. Can you keep an eye on him for me? Make sure he stays safe?"

Rusty was taken aback - and that's when he realised he did not hear the banging skip bins anymore. He spun and saw Benny watching them, his stone face decidedly harder.

"Gotta go," he said in a rush and hurried over to the truck. He gave his best attempt at a casual grin. "Finished now?"

Benny shot him a cool look. "What were you and the bird whispering about?"

Rusty tensed, but he forced a disinterested shrug. "She wanted a favour, but I told her I don't do nothin' for no aeroplanes."

Benny face did not change, but his small eyes seemed to bore into Rusty. "Smart answer," he said at last and hitched onto the steamer's belt. "Why don't you help me with the rest of the skip bins, steam train?"

Rusty tried not to gag as he nodded.

* * *

"So much for Plan B," Rusty exhaled, trudging away from the last two chair cars, who he could still hear snickering behind him. What a waste of time.

Rusty looked up at the evening sky where he could see a few stars beginning to sprinkle the purplish canvas, and he scoffed.  _So much for Poppa's prayers_ , he thought. He pursed his lips and blew out a bit of excess steam through his whistle.

He continued on, picking up the pace to punch in for his night shift. He felt tired from working in the sun; Bogey had discovered more graffiti that they had missed, and two days later they were still not done. His throat felt dry, and his stomach complained of hunger with each chug of his pistons, but he had not been able to buy himself a bag of crisps or anything on his lunch break. By the time he had tried to grab a quick snack after getting rejected by the tenth piece of coaching stock that day, the food booths had run out of the items which he could afford, and the diner on duty said they would not get a new shipment for three days.

 _Maybe you would've had time to buy something if you hadn't gone to the coach yard on a fool's errand_ , a part of his mind scolded him, and he swallowed back the bile. He had spent the better part of two days' worth of free time asking every carriage that came in and out of the marshalling yard to partner with him, and each one had turned him down.

Sue Casey the luggage van had broke into a fit of giggles. Andromeda the sleeping car had said her father was an electric passenger engine, and she would sooner see one of the electric Nationals win the racing crown from Greaseball than a steamer. Charity the chair car had said she had to wash her hair on race night. Carmen, the Wheel Guide leader, had been one of the few to wish him luck, but she and her husband had plans for their anniversary that weekend.

At every turn, he had been rejected. Now, that left him to try the freight yard, but as his eyes drifted toward the track that led to the wagon neighborhood, his heart clenched.  _What's even the point?_

Even if some van agreed to partner with him, he had little time to train, and he would look like a fool as he dragged behind the real champions who had proper coaches.

 _It was a nice dream, but it's time to wake up, Rusty_.

He reached the depot as the evening wind picked up, and the station lights flicked on, illuminating the tracks. He could see a few of the night shift shunters already at work, getting the sleeper trains ready for their runs. Rusty moved around the building to the clock machine and grabbed his punch card - and his nose twitched at a hint of a foul odour.

Suddenly a hand grabbed his wrist and spun him around. His tender slammed into the wall as Tank shoved his smelly arm against Rusty's throat. "Hey, steam train."

Rusty choked and pushed against Tank's thick arm with his free hand, but the diesel pressed harder his iron windpipe. On either side of Tank, Lube and Gook rolled up, glaring at Rusty.

"Gook came back to the yard today from pulling the rubbish train," said Tank, his baleful eyes glittering, "and guess what story Benny the bin truck told him."

Rusty shook his head, gurgling. "Not… true…"

Gook scoffed. "Sounds like a guilty conscience, Tank."

"I think so too," said Tank. He released Rusty neck, but the steamer was only able to draw in one shaking breath before Tank grabbed a fistful of his hair, swinging him around. Now the three diesels surrounded him.

Lube grabbed his right arm. "You like playing with metal birds more than coaches, steam train?" he growled.

Gook grabbed his other arm. "You like sleeping with the enemy?"

Tank flexed his fist, towering above the steamer. "Poppa ain't here to save your rusted bum this time." He pulled his arm back.

Rusty braced himself.

"Hey! Leave him alone," came a voice.

It was enough to make the diesels stop, but Rusty bit back a groan as he looked over his shoulder to see Pilot striding toward them. What was that idiot doing?

Tank pointed a warning finger at him. "This don't concern you, shunter."

Pilot braked a meter away. His green lip trembled for a brief moment, but he stayed put. "Leave him alone."

Tank leered. "Lube, teach the pipsqueak some manners while we finish with the steam traitor."

Pilot's eyes widened, and he visibly gulped as Lube released the rusted arm - and Rusty did the first stupid thing that popped into his head. He reached back into his tender, grabbed a coal, and hurled it right into Gook's face -  _whack!_

Gook let out a yell and released Rusty to grab his now dented nose. Rusty did not pause a second. Tank made a grab for him, but Rusty spun away and charged toward Lube and Pilot. The binliner jumped back on obvious instinct, leaving the shunter open. Rusty did not slow but grabbed Pilot's arm and broke into a run, speeding into the night.

"Get them!" shouted Tank, and the scream of wheels followed.

 _Get to Control, get to Control, get to Control_. Rusty charged for the horizon. Pilot grabbed his holdings, shunter pride forgotten, and Rusty ducked down a side line, putting all his mind and strength into moving forward.

He heard the binliners keeping up the chase. Pilot was not the heaviest vehicle Rusty had ever pulled, but his shunter wheels were not made for high speeds, and Rusty could feel the drag. It would only be a matter of time before the diesels caught up.

Rusty leaned forward, his untrained pistons screaming against rust he did not know he had - and suddenly, up ahead in the twilight, a low trestle neared, rested between two hills. A trio of hoppers napped in work mode on a siding beneath the bridge - which gave Rusty an idea. "Pilot, switch!"

He crouched down and made the change without waiting for a response. His arms disappeared as did his legs, and his wheels hit the rails with a clang. He felt Pilot morph behind him. Cuboid and relying on just pistons to move them forward, both shunters sailed beneath the bridge.

Only a few seconds, but it was enough. Rusty staggered back to his feet, regaining his racing form, and he was rewarded with a reverberating clank and a cry of pain. He felt Pilot change back as well, and Rusty risked looking over his shoulder. Lube and Gook swung themselves over the trestle, but Tank did not follow.

Rusty turned forward.  _Just a little further!_

Up ahead he saw a junction where the track split. One line led into a faintly illuminated tunnel - and he pushed faster, acting as if he were heading toward it. The mouth of the tunnel soon loomed above him - and at the last moment he made a sharp left turn, heading down the other line.

A clattering crash rang out behind him, and a curse that sounded like it came from Gook, echoed in the tunnel.

One last set of wheels clamoured behind him, still following, but Rusty knew it wasn't far now. Within moments the light of the control tower emerged behind the dark hills.

His heart leapt.

All at once he felt a yank on his belt, and Pilot let out a yelp as Lube dragged him off the steamer's couplings.

Rusty did not pause. Instinctively, he spun and charged at Lube. He pursed his lips and blew steam through his whistle into Lube's face. " _Whooo!_ "

Lube stood too tall for the blast to do much damage, but it hit his jaw. The diesel hissed with pain and lurched backward, releasing Pilot.

Rusty grabbed the shunter's wrist and charged forward again, wildly pumping his free piston.

The control tower was a lot closer now. Rusty felt his flare jump with determination - right before he stumbled, and his knees connected against the concrete sleepers, shooting pain through him. Pilot crashed beside him on the grass. Coal slipped out of Rusty's tender and tumbled about his head. He made a move to snatch one for a weapon, but all at once a hand grabbed his holdings and yanked him up. Before Rusty could do more than tense, Lube's knee slammed into his stomach.

"That'll teach you, you rotten - " Lube started to growl, but a high pitched voice blared from a nearby speaker.

"Hey - ! Break it up!" ordered Control. "Lube, Rusty, Pilot, you three report at my tower this instant!"

Lube immediately stepped away as if bitten, allowing Rusty to fall to the ground. Rusty quickly rolled to the side and looked up to see the diesel mouth the words, "You're dead," but Lube started toward the nearby control tower.

Rusty took a deep breath, rubbing his injured stomach, and forced himself up onto his smarting knees. He turned to Pilot, whose synthetic skin now seemed to match his green paint in the faint light.

"Don't like fast. Don't like fast," the shunter moaned, clutching his abdomen.

Rusty heaved a relieved sigh. "C'mon, Pie Man. We're safe now," he urged, helping the green shunter to his wheels, and together they limped toward the control tower.

* * *

"Well, it could have been a lot worse," said Pilot as he stuffed the bits of rubbish on the ground into his bin bag.

"Yeah, for Control, this is practically fair," cracked Rusty, trying not to get pop on his fingers as he picked up a crushed can that someone had thought belonged in the decorative bushes that lined the coach yard instead of the dustbin mere meters away.

The reprimanding that had followed yesterday's chase had not gone in their favour. The three binliners had claimed that Rusty had started the fight and provoked them into chasing the shunters. It did not matter that Pilot was a witness or that Rusty had only blew a tiny bit of steam at Lube in self-defense. Since the security cameras by the punch cards had been on the fritz for three weeks, Control had said that neither side could prove their claim, so all five engines would be disciplined.

"And if I ever hear about you fighting again," Control had told Rusty in private, "you can't race."

Rusty shook his head at the memory, biting his cheek. At least when he won, he could apply to another line and never have to see Control or the binliners again.  _Just keep your head down a little longer, Rusty_.

Pilot stretched, rubbing his lower back. "How do you do all this everyday, Steam Man?" he asked, wincing.

"One piece of rubbish at a time," Rusty replied, flicking a torn Mars Bar wrapper in his bag.

The shunter made a face. "You're a better train than me, mate," he said before he bent to touch his toe stops with a stifled groan.

A few days ago Rusty might have gotten some satisfaction out of seeing the resident goofball getting a taste of the steamer's daily workload, but now he just felt sympathy for the shunter. Fleeing a thrashing from smelly diesel locomotives had that effect on an acquaintanceship, it seemed.

"Have you talked to Amelia at all?" he asked, rolling to pick up a piece of rubbish by the nearby guardrail that separated the coach yard from a rocky ledge.

The shunter straightened. "Yeah. She's happy about what you did and says she wishes you were able to give Lube a punch for her." His green lips spread. "Ain't she the best?"

"If she can handle you, she is," Rusty replied, and Pilot laughed.

Suddenly, the shunter leaned forward, and his eyes widened. "Can you keep a secret?" At Rusty's nod, the green shunter checked over both shoulders before he whispered, "I'm gonna ask her to marry me. On race night."

"That's a jolly big step," said Rusty, trying not to look impolite while his mind strove to imagine the green goofball in such a commitment.

Pilot grinned. "I know."

"What about the binliners?"

Pilot shrugged, sitting down upon the guardrail. "We could start over somewhere else that has an airfield and a station next to each other."

"In Britain?" Rusty said skeptically.

Pilot shook his head. "Jetson the private jet works for a rich bloke, and he says he knows couples like us in some of the countries he's visited. Some even have kids."

"What are you gonna build?" Rusty asked before he could stop himself.

Pilot's hazel eyes lit up. "I know Amelia has said that if she ever had a little plane boy, she'd want to call him Windsor after her grandfa - " he began, but he stopped, horror suddenly dawning on his painted face.

That was when Rusty noticed the smell of rotting rubbish, and he whirled around to see Tank, Lube, and Gook standing a few meters away - but they were not alone. Four other locomotives in black paint stood with them, and Rusty recognized them as some of the freight engines who worked in the yard.

Pilot sidled next to Rusty, looking ready to hitch on, but the diesels quickly moved to either side of them, cutting off their escape.

Tank rolled forward, cracking his knuckles. "Yesterday you two were lucky."

Rusty and Pilot backed up against the guardrail. For a wild moment, Rusty considered swinging himself over the bar and sliding down the rocky ledge - and then all at once an alarm bell sounded on his right, causing a few of the engines to jump.

Suddenly Rusty saw Bogey pushing his way through the barricade. Right behind him came Shortstop, Smuts, Ballast, Chainlink, and a few of the younger blue shunters.

Bogey braked right in front of Tank, and Tank's lip curled. "This ain't your business, bald man."

The shunter supervisor straightened his shoulders. "My workers are my business," he said bravely, although his voice cracked on the last syllable.

The black clad locomotives scoffed, and a few flexed their fists. Tank jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Clear off, and I'll let you and the other shrimps live for now."

Bogey's diesel tank rumbled, but he did not move away. "You leave my workers alone, binliner, or you'll have me to deal with."

Shortstop rolled up beside him. "And me."

"And me," chimed in Ballast and Chainlink, flanking the two, and Smuts sidled up next. One by one the other shunters joined the ranks, separating Rusty and Pilot from their attackers.

The seven mainliners seemed taken back, and Tank momentarily looked flustered, but then his eyes hardened. "Whatever," he sneered, turning away. "We have better things to do." He gestured, and his companions followed him down the line. A few made rude gestures.

Rusty released the breath he was holding. "That was close," he murmured, planting his hands upon his knees.

The brown haired Chainlink turned and, grinning, punched Pilot's arm. "Brilliant!"

Pilot seemed to recover and high fived his friend. " _A shunter crew, a shunter crew, you'd better never bother with a shunter crew_ ," he hummed.

"I'm happy you two found it a piece of cake," said Bogey dryly before he turned to Rusty. "You all right, steamer?"

Rusty nodded, and as he scanned the awkward concerned faces of the shunters, he felt a rush of warmth for all of them. "Thanks, chaps."

Ballast rolled up beside him, and her gray eyes looked troubled. "Are you really seeing an aeroplane, Rusty?"

Before Rusty could do more than shake his head, Pilot quickly cut in, "Not that there's anything wrong if two mature adults liked each other, right?" He looked at the others nervously.

"Nothing wrong," said Chainlink with a laugh. "I'd say it's about time our mainliner found himself a girlfriend - if it were true." He gave Rusty a wink, and a few other shunters laughed, not unkindly.

"Grow up, you lot," said Ballast, folding her blue arms.

Rusty held up his hands, feeling his artificial skin heat. "I'm happy to stay a bachelor, if it's all the same."

Pilot had visibly relaxed now, and he gave Rusty a knowing look, strumming his invisible guitar. "I dunno. Girls will be lined up and down the track once you win the race, you know."

"What race?" Bogey asked, quirking a red eyebrow.

Rusty cleared his throat, wishing Pilot had kept his gob shut. "I'm entering," he said nonchalantly and braced himself for the onslaught of ridicule.

The shunters exchanged glances, and Chainlink shook his head, amazed. "So, they  _were_  telling the truth."

Ballast nodded, staring at Rusty. "Some of the coaches said you were asking for partners, but I thought it was Sue Casey winding them up - like that time on Bonfire Night."

The others murmured in agreement.

Pilot stepped next to Rusty. "You shoulda seen him when we were running from the binliners," he told them, admiration in his voice. "If he could do that, imagine what he'll do on race night after he's trained up and all."

A few shunters looked at Rusty in wonder, but the tank engine grimaced. "Maybe not," he said darkly. "Control won't give me the time off to train."

Pilot turned, surprised. "Why not?"

Rusty rolled his eyes. "We still have a business to run," he said, mimicking Control's high voice. "As long as the work gets done, you can race."

Pilot's brow furrowed. "So, what do you need? A day or two each week?"

Rusty shrugged. "Dunno. Three, at least."

Pilot nodded slowly. "Yeah, I could do three."

Rusty raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

The green smile appeared. "I work a few nights a week, and you train."

For a moment Rusty was not sure he heard right. "You'd do that?"

Pilot gave a carefree shrug. "Us shunters gotta stick together, mate."

Ballast cleared her throat, fidgeting with her metal boilersuit. "I could probably handle every other Sunday afternoon," she offered, giving Rusty a shy look.

"Wednesdays are usually slow in the afternoon," Bogey said, stroking his thinning mustache. "I could let you off early."

Rusty stared at them in amazement. "Really?"

Bogey nodded, and his brown eyes had understanding in them. "You're meant to be a mainliner. You weren't made to do our work. That ain't your fault," he added at Rusty's expression. "Maybe racing is what you need most right now." He then wagged a finger, giving the steamer a mock frown. "Don't let me hear about you slacking in your training now."

Rusty grinned, his flame leaping in his chest - until he remembered. "Now, all I gotta do is find a partner," he sighed wearily.

Ballast turned a little pink, and she adjusted her glasses. "Wish I could help you there."

Chainlink rubbed his scratched chin. "Don't you have those boxcar cousins?"

Rusty looked heavenward. "The Rockies have gotten picky with who they race with ever since Rocky One lost that boxing match to Apollo the day car," he said. "They say they want to save face, but it's like they're expecting the Royal Train to roll up and ask for a partner."

Pilot suddenly snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up. "I got it!" he beamed. "Pearl the observation car will come of age in a fortnight. She likes racing. You two can start training after her birthday and be ready by race night."

Rusty recalled that almost a year prior Control had bought three observation cars to alternate working on his excursion train, but the steamer rarely socialised with the younger trains and could not place the face. "Which one is she again?" he asked sheepishly.

"The carriage with the pink hair that wants to be a ballerina," Pilot replied. He waved a hand, green lips stretching further. "C'mon, mate, I'll introduce you."

"Cheers," Rusty replied, and the two started for the coach yard.

THE END


End file.
